Chapter Seven

Adele

I wake up with my skull throbbing like it's hosting a rave party. For a second, I'm lost, my brain scrambling to make sense of my surroundings.

The musty smell of the car assaults my nostrils, and it all comes rushing back like a tidal wave of "oh shit."

I bit that hulking gorilla who had the audacity to throw me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Guess he didn't appreciate my dental work, considering he tossed me to the ground like a possessed harpy.

My head must've bounced off the ground, knocking me out cold.

Passing out during a kidnapping? Real clever, Addy.

I gingerly touch the back of my head, half expecting my hand to come away sticky. Thankfully, there's no blood, just a goose egg the size of Texas. My wrists ache like they've been in shackles, but somehow, they're free now. Small mercies.

The wide-open car door screams "trap!" but my legs have a mind of their own. I'd rather crawl back to the road on my hands and knees than stick around for round two with Hulk.

I scramble out of the car, my head spinning like a top. And that's when I see him.

Not Hulk, but someone else. Someone who just might be the forbidden man who haunts my dreams and waking thoughts and makes me shake with need like a crack addict.

His back is turned, his head bowed, and his hands shoved in his pockets like he's posing for a GQ shoot. Six foot five, impossibly broad shoulders, and that glossy black hair pulled back in a messy man bun? Unmistakable.

This . . .

This simply cannot be happening. I promised myself there was no way the universe would let me run into this man. Not only did the universe let me down, the bitch decided I'd meet him while looking my absolute worst.

I'm barefoot—courtesy of my simian abductor, my hair is like a bird's nest, and I'm pretty sure my skirt is ripped in more than one place. Not exactly the reunion to relish.

I blink hard, hoping to clear the haze and the man from my vision, but there's no mistaking him. It is Dante Vitelli, in the flesh. My heart drops into my belly then flips over itself, which is ridiculous considering all the acrobatics it's been doing all evening.

I take a step forward, gravel poking into my bare feet. "Dante?"

He turns, his steel-gray eyes locking onto mine, and I lose my breath. Dante is the embodiment of danger—a walking, talking hazard sign. And no matter how much I hide, it seems danger always finds me. It's like a freaking curse.

I swallow against a suddenly parched throat. "How are you here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Addy," Dante snaps angrily, hands still clenched in his pockets. "What the fuck are you doing skulking around in my city at night?"

His city? His tone gets my back up. Arching a single eyebrow, I shrug. "Oh, you know, I just thought I'd pop by Chicago for the world-famous ‘Get Kidnapped by Goons' tour. It's all the rage now in Boston, you see."

His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. "Are you with the Irish?"

I stare at him in confusion, remembering how the Hulk asked if I was Irish. "Why the hell would I be with the Irish? What Irish?"

When he simply continues to watch me, I say, "Oh right, of course. Because every half-Irish redhead automatically comes with a built-in leprechaun squad, right?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Addy," he grits. "What the fuck are you doing in Chicago? I thought Daddy doesn't let you leave Boston."

I bristle at his mocking tone, my own temper flaring. "First of all, screw you. And second, I don't need anyone's permission to go where I please."

"Don't you?"

Just then, a large black SUV pulls up and my captor hops out. He tosses the key to Dante and says something in Italian, which Dante replies to with a curt nod. Then he disappears without another word.

Dante gestures to the car. "Get in. Let's get you out of here."

"Why don't you fuck off? I'm tired and in pain, and I need to crash right," I point to the Marston, "there."

He sighs, then starts to move toward me, but he seems to think better of it and stops. Even so, I feel the shrinking distance between us, like a force field that is getting stronger. "That place is mine."

Dear Lord. Is there anything he doesn't own?

"I suggest you come with me."

I cross my arms, standing my ground. "Are you insane? You expect me to come with you after you've been killing people tonight? I heard the gunshots."

A flicker of something dark crosses his face. "I haven't. Not directly."

It dawns on me that he means the accident. "The pile-up on the I-90 . . . that was you?"

Dante doesn't answer, but his silence speaks volumes. So I launch into a lecture, my voice rising with each word. "Do you have any idea what you've done over there? The thousands of lives and schedules you've disrupted? I had plans tonight as I'm sure all those other people had. Did you even stop to think about that?" I finish on a yell.

"Not really," he says icily. "But right now, I'm thinking about your Irish friends who escaped to find reinforcements. Now, unless you're planning on catching a bullet or two in that pretty head, you'll shut up and get in the fucking car. Now."

My knees instantly weaken at his tone, and I grit my teeth in annoyance. "Jerk," I huff, but the fact still stands. It's either I sit down in the next ten seconds or collapse in a heap. "Where are you taking me?"

"Away from here." Dante moves to the black SUV and opens the door for me; the perfect gentleman if you ignore everything else he's been up to tonight.

I catch a whiff of him as I go past him to get in the car. His scent is just as bold, musky, and exciting as I remember. Lord, I've missed the way he smells. Before I can help myself, I take in another lungful of him. And then another as he yanks the seatbelt and secures it without touching me.

God, he smells good.

I'm seconds away from burying my face in his neck when he jerks back and then slams the door.

Wow, Addy. Desperate much? Even he is trying to give you a wide berth but you? You're busy drowning your survival instincts in ‘Eau de Bad Decision'.

"Is Hulky your man?" I ask as soon as he gets into the driver's seat. "The one who caught and bundled me into the car?"

Dante's lips twitch like he's fighting a smile, as he merges into traffic. The gridlock has magically disappeared and traffic is flowing as normal. "Yeah. You upset him, though. He doesn't appreciate being bitten."

There's something in his tone that makes heat pool in my belly. Memories of a different kind of biting threaten to surface, but I shove them down ruthlessly.

"You're right. Innocent women should politely ask their kidnappers for their preferences before they defend themselves."

"Innocent?" Dante scoffs, his eyes meeting mine. "Adele O'Shea, what the fuck are you doing here right now?"

I hesitate, weighing my options. I could lie, but Dante's always been able to see right through me. "I was trying to get to the airport," I admit. "But thanks to you, I've missed my flight."

"Why did you come to Chicago?"

"Work sent me."

His eyes flick to me then he scoffs, "You're the one Jim Pearson sent to Chicago?"

How does he know Jim Pearson or where I work?

I purse my lips, a stubborn refusal rising in my throat. I can't tell him about the case or the evidence I was supposed to retrieve. "No."

"Addy," Dante growls, his voice low and commanding. "Don't bother lying. You're terrible at it. Did you come for the sample?"

I stay silent, my heart hammering against my ribs. I can feel his frustration, but there's something else beneath that. Something that feels a lot like concern.

Still, I keep my mouth shut.

"Two and a half years, and you're still afraid of me," he shakes his head slowly, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable.

"I'm . . . not," I say, the words sticking in my throat. But it's obvious, even to me, that I'm not being truthful. Dante scares me, although not for all the reasons he should.

That last night, after I'd crawled out from under the table, I wouldn't let Dante come near me. He'd had to call me a cab straight to the airport. I was terrified, but more than that, I was confused as to why seeing Dante kill those guys for insulting me didn't turn me off.

For weeks, I tried to process what I was feeling, and I was horrified to realize that the deepest, darkest part of me liked it. A lot. I liked the way the air around him crackled. It was like watching a paranormal being shift. I found his dominance riveting, and his readiness to kill to defend my honor warmed me in a twisted way.

And that's the part that scares me.

Dante swears under his breath. "Addy, you know I'd never hurt you."

I do know he won't hurt me. But I still don't say anything. Instead, I study his profile, the strong line of his jaw, and the curve of his lips. Even the blood trickling down from his temple to his jaw. I want nothing more than to catch it with my thumb and then . . .

What? My brain screams at me.

I tear my gaze away from him and ask, "How do you know where I work, Dante?"

Dante responds with a question. "Tell me who sent you to Chicago."

I hesitate, but something in his eyes, a glimmer of genuine concern, compels me to tell the truth. "My boss. Jim Pearson breathed down my boss's neck, and he sent me here."

His grip tightens on the steering wheel. "You came for the sample." It's not a question. I remain silent, but I don't need to say anything because he asks, "Why you, though? Why didn't they send someone from logistics? And where's your security detail?"

I shrug. "There wasn't time to do things by the book."

"Fuck," he swears again, dragging a hand down his face. "Why couldn't you just move to some small town and become the bounty hunter you always dreamed of?"

My lips twitch involuntarily. I know he's just trying to get a rise out of me. "I never said that, jackass."

The grooves in his cheeks flash briefly. "Might as well. You're obsessed with digging into crimes."

"And you live to create those crimes, don't you?" I retort dryly, and then it hits me: pieces of the puzzle falling into place and Kira's theory about the mafia funding Tommy Martelli's defense.

"Oh my God. The fire starting on the sixteenth floor, the fire unit's response . . . it wasn't a coincidence. You did that, didn't you?" I accuse. "You're sabotaging the Martelli case."

Dante doesn't deny it. He just keeps driving. When he finally decides to say something it's to ask, "Does your father know where you are, Addy?"

"I told you, Dante, I don't need his permission—"

He interjects, "I hear you. But does Benjamin O'Shea know where you are right now?"

I roll my eyes at his persistence. "We're not exactly on speaking terms, but yes, I mentioned it to him."

"Why aren't you speaking to him?"

I hesitate, considering whether to tell him, then I blurt, "Because he's a criminal."

Dante tenses beside me, wordlessly asking me to elaborate. And I find that I do. Like old times I used to be able to tell Dante anything.

"He . . . um. See, I found out that he deals with counterfeit money."

"And?" Dante seems to be waiting for more.

I snap, "What, like that's not enough? He's always been a man of high morals and brought me up to detest crime. How could he just turn around and do that?"

Dante huffs a disbelieving breath. "That's the reason you stopped talking to him?"

Irritation makes my fists clench. "I know for someone like you, that's like a kid taking candy from a shop, so I completely understand how you can be dismissive of what he's doing."

"Someone like me, huh . . ." Dante murmurs, then suddenly pulls the car over to the side of the road. He turns to face me, his gaze hard and searching.

"Addy. I and the Irish Mob are enemies. Did you know that every time you've come to Chicago, the Mob has deliberately trespassed on my turf? Now, if I were a man given to superstition, I'd conclude that you bring them with you."

"Well, it's a good thing you're not superstitious then," I snap, feeling a sudden urge to smack his too-handsome face. Insinuating that I might somehow be involved in a criminal gang just because of my Irish heritage makes me see red.

He watches me for a beat and then says, "You're right, I'm not superstitious." His voice softens. "In any case, you should leave tonight. Now, actually."

"What do you think I've been trying to do?" I say, nearly yelling. "I want to leave this damned city! I told you, I missed my flight."

"I'll get you on another flight," Dante clips.

I'm not prepared to examine why his determination to get rid of me stings. "You can't. That was the last one today. The next flight leaves tomorrow morning."

I watch in disbelief as Dante whips out his cell phone, his thumb moving at lightning speed across the screen. He brings the phone to his ear and speaks in a low, urgent tone. "Yeah, I need the jet. No, just a skeletal crew. Make it fifteen minutes."

He clicks off the call and tosses the phone onto the dashboard. "You're leaving tonight, Addy."

He's flying me out on his jet? Memories of the last time that happened assail me. When he dragged me onto his lap and fucked my brains out in the confines of his tinted SUV. "You can't just fly me to Boston, Dante. That's . . . insane."

His lips curve into a humorless smile. "You should take the chance before I change my mind."

Change your mind and do what? I don't dare ask.

He starts driving again, and this time, he doesn't spare me another glance.

I, on the other hand, can't seem to stop ogling. He radiates so much animal magnetism, and after over two years of no contact, my senses feel overwhelmed by his proximity.

I glance at his profile again and notice the muscle ticking at his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders, and the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. His eyes blaze with intensity, but his demeanor is cold and detached.

Like the eye of a hurricane.

His restraint is palpable. Dante is holding himself back, and the effort is etched in every tense line of his body. I can almost taste the words he wants to say, the actions he wants to take, but he's reining them in.

Why? What does he want? What is he hiding? What does he know that I don't?

The questions burn in my throat, but I push them back, afraid of the answers. Afraid of the truth that might shatter my razor-thin resolve.

Silence stretches in the car, the air between us redolent with desire and unspoken words as Dante speeds through the night.

Before long, my skin begins to prickle with the need to touch him. But I know it'd be stupid to try it. Instead of doing what my body screams for—to reach across the console and place my hand on his bunched thigh, I lean back and slide my hand over my own thigh, rubbing small soothing circles, imagining it was Dante's callused hand.

Dante instantly floors the accelerator, shooting beyond the already breakneck speed. I should be terrified by how fast the man drives, but he handles cars so smoothly it hardly feels dangerous.

Subtly, I drag the hem of my skirt an inch higher. I know I'm playing with fire right now, but a part of me, a part I've denied for too long, wants to get burned.

A private airstrip—a strip of asphalt illuminated by the harsh glare of floodlights—materializes out of the darkness, ending my unnoticed strip tease.

The SUV screeches to a halt a few hundred feet away from a sleek black jet. The engines are on, and the sound is unnaturally loud in the otherwise empty airstrip. I see a lone man with a high-vis jacket waiting at the bottom of the idling aircraft.

"How do you even have a jet waiting so quickly?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Dante's jaw unclenches. "I just returned to Chicago not long ago myself. Go." His voice is steely, brooking no argument.

I hesitate, my hand on the door handle. Dante still hasn't looked at me. I hate how he can maintain control while I'm completely unraveling.

Forcing myself to open the door, I step into the cool night air and make my way toward the waiting jet. Every step away from Dante feels like I'm dragging my feet through thick molasses.

The man at the bottom greets me as I reach the aircraft steps . "Benvenuta, signorina."

I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

The low rumble of the jet engines vibrates through my chest as I take the first few steps. Suddenly, I can't go any further. My hand clenches around the cold metal handrail, unwilling—unable to let go.

It's as if there's an invisible string connecting my back to that SUV, and I've now reached the end of the tether.

Don't look back, Addy. Please.

After what feels like hours of battling with common sense, compulsion wins out, and I turn back, my eyes seeking out Dante.

He's stepped out of the SUV and is leaning against the side of it, all coiled tension and barely restrained power. A cigarette glows between his fingers, the tip a bright ember in the darkness.

The thought of leaving like this, of never seeing Dante again, is unbearable. Before I realize it, I'm walking back to him.

Dante goes statue-still as I approach, but his eyes, much like a predator's, track my every move.

"What do you want, Addy?" He bites out, his baritone rougher than usual.

"I hate it when you smoke," I blurt.

His lips twitch with a ghost of a smile. "Is that what you came back here to tell me?"

"Yes," I lie, my heart pounding against my ribs.

Dante holds my gaze for a long moment, then tosses the cigarette to the ground and slowly crushes it beneath his shoe.

"Done. You can leave now." He nods toward the plane, his message clear.

But I can't move. I can't tear my eyes away from him. I stand there, drinking in the sight of him, committing every detail to memory.

After what feels like an eternity, Dante moves. In one fluid motion, he uncoils and pushes off the car, grabs my bag, and tosses it to the ground.

Then he pulls me roughly against him, and his mouth crashes down on mine in a kiss that sears me to my bones.